Clueless Ink

Sometimes, it takes time to find our footing on Earth.

I wonder if our souls race like our hearts, rushing through life’s motions the moment they enter our bodies.

How long did they wait—training, manifesting, maneuvering—before finally settling in?

Then, bam! Your birthday. Congratulations.

Some of us arrive together, yet most are chasing a degree, a paycheck,

a deadline before 30.

Each generation peers into the next, thinking,

“I wish I knew this sooner.

I wish I had chosen economics.

I wish someone had taught me.”

We treat time like currency—saving it, storing it in no-interest experience accounts, and for what?

Living? Surviving?

Learning. Falling. Dancing. Crying. Searching. Feeling.

We came to live, but here we are, barely alive,

surviving amidst luxury.

Aren’t we just another bam away from slipping into the next phase, the finale?

Or perhaps no phase at all—life beyond this world, or simply fossils

But then it struck me—this is my learning, my chapter (fuck whether it came before 30 or after).

A chapter where I piece it all together.

I look into the mirror and smile, because I want to, and because I have the time.

I water the plant because I can’t let it die in front of me.

I bought it from my experience account, and I love it. It makes me happy.

It makes me happy that I can put this into words.

And trust me when I say this—I just quit.

I’ll restart my engine when I’m all fueled up